C'est La Mort
by MistressOfSmite
Summary: He's tired of scratching and clawing. It feels like the worst mistake he could make, but he will let her go, as she's asked him to. Genre adjusted to Tragedy. Character death. COMPLETE.
1. Fragile

_**AU after 8x04. I don't care at all for the season, but it has been inspirational in a way.**_

 _Dreams are like paper. They tear so easily._

—Unknown

X

The drive to the Hamptons takes a lot longer than it used to. Or it seems to. In the past, he'd listen to music or play audiobooks, but ever since his abduction, he prefers fewer distractions. He keeps an eye out for drivers who follow too close; he gives black SUVs a wide berth; he's always listening for suspicious sounds.

There's no one to keep him company on this drive. No one to provide conversation, so he replays the one with Kate, over and over again.

" _I can't keep doing this. I can't see you smile at me and then go home and wonder how much longer it will be before you come home, if you come home. And though I feel I'm making one of the biggest mistakes of my life, I'm going to give you what you asked for." He took a deep breath and said, "Being here in the city, where you are, is too tempting. I don't do well with temptation."_

" _I know," she said, and she smiled._

 _He tried to return the smile, but it felt crooked and false. "I'm going to the Hamptons. I'll stay there until…until you no longer need space. However long it takes. Because if—"_

" _When." Her voice was vehement. "Don't you dare say 'if.'"_

" _When we are back together, it has to be for good. I need to know that we come first with each other."_

 _Her beautiful hazel eyes were red-rimmed, and shiny with tears. "I promise. We'll make it work. Whatever it takes."_

He wants so badly to believe her.

Castle arrives at the Hamptons house without incident. He walks in the front door, sets down his bags and his laptop case. The house feels much bigger than usual, and the echoes seem quite loud. Yet at first it seems less lonely than the loft, probably because he and Kate spent less time here.

He makes the mistake of taking his bags into the master bedroom; the moment he does, memory hits him, hard. Kate in white lace and, after a while, in nothing at all. Kate sighing and shivering in delight as he devoted himself to cherishing every bit of her with his hands and lips and body. Their wedding night. Less than a year ago. _Don't tell me we won't even make it one year._ He'd always thought that the traditional gift of paper for a one-year anniversary was silly; paper is so fragile. Now it seems very appropriate.

The master bedroom won't do. Castle rambles the house, finds a guest bedroom that has a nice view and no memories. He puts his clothes and toiletries away in the guest room, and then heads downstairs and turns the great room into a writer's den with his laptop, notes, and a thesaurus. He makes a dinner he won't remember eating, writes words that won't make it into a novel, and waits for a phone call from his wife.

Days go by. Weeks.

He spends a lot of time on the beach; when he's wandering the shore or looking out at the water, he can pretend he's not waiting for his phone to ring. He picks up seashells and puts them in his pocket and then throws them back out to sea—he'll wait until she's with him again to gather shells.

Every few days he has to fight the urge to get back to the city. Sometimes he catches himself heading out the door and forces himself to stop. Sometimes he makes it as far as the driveway. Once—just the other day, in fact—he was in the car, with the key in the ignition, ready to drive home.

Because she needs him. He knows this.

She finally, finally convinced him that it wasn't his doing. No mean feat, that. She once said he was the common denominator in his failed marriages, and why should this marriage be any different? In the end, he did come to believe her. But in a way, it's worse now. If she isn't running from him, what is she running toward?

Whatever it is, it's big. It's bad. Something she has to keep secret from him, from her father, from the boys, from Lanie. Something too big and bad for her to handle, no matter what she believes she's capable of. She's extraordinary. But even extraordinary has its limits.

Whatever it is, she needs him with her if she's going to take it on and live. But she's sent him away.

She says it's the right thing. She says it's what she wants. Everyone says he needs to do as she asks and give her space, give her time. If everyone says it's so, it must be true.

But it feels so wrong.

He tells himself it's ego talking. Kate Beckett was a great detective before she met him and would continue being great if he was no longer her partner.

It's true. But that doesn't mean she doesn't need him.

He should go back. He should use every wile and bit of strength to get the truth from her and then fight alongside her—he can't delude himself that he'll be able to talk her out of it. He recognized too well the light in her eyes, the look he calls dedication and strength but that he sometimes thinks of as zealotry. He should do that.

But he's tired. Tired of scratching and clawing. Tired of coming up against walls he'd believed—foolishly?—were long demolished. Tired of waiting. Tired of secrets. Tired of wondering if Bracken's taunt was indeed true—that she will never be content with merely being his wife.

It may be (he's so terribly afraid it will be) the worst decision he's ever made in his life. But for once, he's going to do what she asks. He'll give her space and let her be.

X

Alexis checks in with him. She's keeping the PI business going and doing a remarkable job with it, and has given in to his pleas to take no dangerous cases. Cheating spouses, dysfunctional families, missing pets—those are the ones she takes, and it becomes their evening ritual to have a FaceTime call so she can share details on the latest case and pick his brain for ideas. Her contributions to these calls are a lot more interesting than his, which, insights on cases aside, consist of his reports on the weather (autumnal), how his writing's going (not well), what he's reading (yet another re-read of _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , even the Bran chapters), and other trivialities. She doesn't ask if he's heard from Kate, because she knows he'd tell her if he had. He doesn't ask if she's heard from Kate, because he knows she'd tell him if she had.

He hears from the boys every few days. He'd hoped that they might be able to get some insight into Kate's activities, but all they can offer him is that she is the first to get in and the last to leave the precinct, and looks tired. She's clearly burning the midnight oil, but why remains a mystery. They promise to let him know if anything changes. Castle invites them to come out to the Hamptons while the weather is still warm enough for Sarah Grace to play on the beach.

Two days after he extends this invitation, he gets a call. It's Esposito's number. "Hey, Javi."

There's a silence on the other end, a silence so long that Castle assumes the call's a misdial. Until he hears a sound he's never heard before, never would have imagined is possible. Esposito is crying.

 _ **To be continued…**_


	2. Broken

_**Caveat lector – please read.**_

 _ **This is now a tragedy fic with major character death (hey, it's titled**_ **C'est La Mort** _ **). I wanted to explore how it would affect Rick if the worst happened the one time he listened to Kate and stayed away as she requested.**_

 _ **Feel free to unfollow or stop reading if this is not your cup of tea. I'm cool with that.**_

 _ **Again, death and angst and grief in this chapter. But also light at the end of the tunnel.**_

" _If you can't fix what's broken, you'll go insane."_ —Max Rockatansky

X

He sits in the chair—his chair, no longer at her desk—gripping the armrests tightly, half afraid that if he lets go, he'll slide off the word and into nothingness, and half hoping such a thing could happen. He stares at the board. Her picture's at the top, and a few things, so very few things, are written and posted around it.

 _Body found in vacant lot near nightclub_

 _Estimated time of death: midnight – 2 a.m._

 _Single GSW back of head_

 _No other injuries_

These few details, marooned in a sea of white board.

He knows a few other things, of course, information that Ryan and Esposito have relayed to him. No witnesses. The noise from the nightclub drowned out the gunshot; no one heard a thing. The handcuffs that bound her hands behind her back are her own. Her gun is missing, as is her phone and her personal laptop and any files she may have had with her. A search of the extended-stay hotel where she was living turned up only her clothes and toiletries—there's nothing to indicate that Kate Beckett was doing anything at that hotel but staying there. No clues as to what case she was working on. Likewise, a search of her office has turned up nothing outside of NYPD cases and paperwork. Ryan and Esposito searched both hotel room and office themselves after two CSU sweeps turned up nothing. They came up empty.

"Castle?"

He looks up to see Ryan there; the detective's boyish face has aged ten years in the last week. Castle can't bring himself to speak, so he just nods in acknowledgment.

"Ballistics came back," Ryan says. "It's…she was shot with her own gun."

Castle tells himself not to imagine how it happened and does so anyway. He wonders how they got the gun from her. There were no other injuries, so it probably wasn't by force. Some sort of threat? He may never know.

"And still no sign of Vikram. He didn't show up for work, same as Beckett. We finally found where he was staying. It's completely clean, just like…" Ryan trails off, turns to stare at the murder board. He blinks fiercely, keeping tears just at bay. "I'm sorry. I am so fucking sorry, Castle."

"It's not your fault," Castle says. He doesn't say, _It's mine_ , despite how true it is. If he'd only listened to his instincts. If he hadn't chosen this one time to not fight alongside her. And he doesn't say, _It's hers_ , though that's true as well. If she hadn't pursued whatever it was that got her killed. If she hadn't shut all of them out.

A new voice from behind them. "Mr. Castle?"

He turns to see the new interim captain. Castle has been introduced to the man and has spoken with him several times, and can't remember a thing about him except that his last name begins with T.

"Mr. Castle, I appreciate your connection to this case, but as you are no longer…I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave the precinct. I'm sorry."

Castle nods. He understands. Letting go of the armrests is difficult; his hands cramp painfully as he unlocks them. He gets to his feet, wavers unsteadily for a moment; he can't remember the last time he ate something. He and Ryan embrace and then part without a word. They'll see each other tomorrow. On the way out he passes by Esposito's desk. Castle still finds it difficult to think of that phone call. Hearing tough-as-nails Javi weep had told Castle more than any actual words could. Now Esposito's tears are gone and his face is stonier than Castle's ever seen it. There's a grim light in his eyes, and Castle knows at once that if they ever find whoever killed Kate, Esposito won't bother with an arrest.

He leaves the precinct building and stands outside on the sidewalk for a moment. He's quite certain that he'll never go back into the building again. He has no reason to.

X

A feeling of déjà vu sweeps over him at the cemetery. Same place where Montgomery was laid to rest. Same gorgeous weather, only this time it's Indian summer instead of late spring. Many of the same people in attendance. The same ceremony and ritual for laying a fallen officer to rest.

Castle takes his place to read his eulogy, the one he's written and rewritten several times over during the week. He takes it out of his pocket, and the words blur before his eyes, turn to meaningless scribbles. _Help me, Kate_ , he begs silently. Remembering that look she gave him at Montgomery's funeral, he glances to the side, but she's not there. He stuffs the paper back into his pocket and extemporizes about the extraordinary detective who put so many murderers behind bars and brought down a corrupt senator. About the woman who was his partner and his best friend and his wife. About how much he'll miss her.

Afterward, he has no idea what exact words he said. Everyone tells him his eulogy was lovely. He lets his mother and his daughter embrace him and they whisper that it will be all right. He knows it won't.

X

The first week was hell.

It was hell, but there were things to give him purpose: making arrangements, answering questions, talking with Ryan and Esposito. But on the day after the funeral, he wakes and gets up and makes coffee and then goes straight back to bed because there's no reason for him not to. He's barely rested this last week and sleep comes easily.

He's not sure what to call the thing that wakes him. He's drifting to consciousness, becoming aware of the empty space on the other side of the bed. Castle feels tears sting his eyes and is relieved, so relieved—he has barely been able to cry this last week and he longs to give release to his grief.

Between one breath and the next, it happens. A sensation of suffocating paralysis, as if he's sunk chin-deep in some sort of quicksand, unable to take more than tiny breaths. It's worse than drowning; it feels as if he's being crushed. Just when he fears that he'll start to hear bones crack, he's released. Gasping, skin slick with cold sweat, he wonders what the hell that was. Some sort of panic attack. Probably a one-time thing.

It isn't. It happens the next time he tries to give in to grief, and the time after that.

All he wants is to mourn his wife, and he can't.

All he wants is to know why she died, and he probably won't. Ryan and Esposito call and text, but their messages are mostly apologies for not learning anything new and inquiries as to how he's doing.

He says he's all right. He's pretty fucking far from all right.

For all its spaciousness, the loft is too small. There are too many memories, too many ghosts. Kate's things are still here. Her presence is here. Her scent. He wants to cherish all of the reminders of her, but when he does, that feeling of suffocation and paralysis squeezes him in its grip.

On impulse one day, he leaves the loft, not having any particular destination in mind. He walks, and it's quite some time before he realizes that he does know where he's going. It's in the park, under some trees, where they once found a body. The steampunk guy. He stands at what was a crime scene years ago, stands there for hours and remembers.

It soon becomes the only thing he wants to do. He roams the city, walking to all the places where they talked and discussed murders and teased each other. Alleys and hotels, parks and the pier. He never takes a cab or car. He walks everywhere, venturing into sketchy areas at any time of day or night, uncaring what happens to him. Perhaps his indifference serves as a shield, for no one troubles him. Perhaps muggers or other predators are discomfited by the sight of this haunted-looking man, increasingly gaunt and graying, who stands in random street corners and dead ends and stares off into memory.

X

"Dad?"

It takes him a few moments to wake. He's not entirely sure what time he came back to the loft last night. He'd made the mistake of walking to a certain alley where Kate had once stood, surrounded by garbage but never looking lovelier, and had told him she wouldn't let him raise their baby on his own. Would any of this be easier if it had happened after they'd had a child? Maybe she wouldn't have left if there had been a child as well.

"Dad?"

His daughter looks down at him. Even for a redhead she's pale, and worry lines are starting to etch themselves in her forehead. One more thing to lay at his door. This grief and worry he's putting his daughter through.

"I'm awake. What is it?" he croaks out.

"I need you to come out to the living room. There are some papers you need to sign."

"What papers?"

"Life insurance. Kate's pension."

His first impulse is to ask that they just be mailed to him, but it's something he really should attend to himself. "Give me a minute."

She nods. "I'll put some coffee on," she says as she turns to leave.

"Thanks, pumpkin."

She turns and looks at him. There's something familiar about her expression. He's seen it before. He's not sure when or where, only that the circumstances were not pleasant. Before he can think on it more, she leaves the bedroom and he slowly starts maneuvering out of bed. There's no need to get dressed; he's still wearing the same clothes he's worn for the last few days.

Castle steps into the living room, and it takes a moment for him to understand what he's seeing. Not some insurance company minion with a handful of papers to sign, but quite a few people. Ryan and Esposito. Lanie. Gina. Jim. He hears a muttered "Jesus Christ" off to his left and sees Gates sitting there with a look of shock on her face.

"What is this?" he asks. No one answers. He glances back toward his bedroom—if he could retreat there, he could get away from all of them and the way they're looking at him, but his mother is standing in front of the door. He turns back and sees his daughter standing by the front door.

He starts to ask what's happening, and then stops, knowing what it is: an intervention.

Later, he's never sure who starts talking or what most of them say. He doesn't respond at first. How can he? None of this would have happened if they hadn't convinced him that he should respect Kate's wishes to stay out of whatever she was involved in. Every instinct of his had told him to stay by her side, and he'd left her, persuaded to by his friends and his family. He'd yielded to their arguments and to his own weariness at being second-best to Kate's need for justice.

It's like his eulogy; he's talking but not entirely aware of what he's saying. Until one sentence comes through: "You don't know what it's like!"

He's instantly ashamed, because Jim Beckett knows. Because Ryan and Esposito know. Lanie knows. Because he recognizes the look on Alexis's face now; she's frightened, as scared as she was when she Skyped him from Paris.

Castle turns away from them, toward his bedroom door. He sees his mother and notices that she has stopped coloring her hair; it's a natural gray now. When did this happen? How long has he been in this state?

He tells them he needs a few minutes, and turns and goes into his bathroom. He only intends to splash some water on his face, but for the first time in who knows how long he actually looks at his reflection.

The reason for Gates's oath at the sight of him is clear. His hair is long and unwashed and shot through with thick streaks of gray. His endless walks have whittled him down to a shade of his old self, and his eyes are like black pits in his skull.

Something Jim Beckett said in the other room gets through to him now. "You vowed to live with Katie. You don't have to die with her."

Part of him wishes he had, no question. And part of him knows he still could. It would be easy. It's like his quicksand nightmares. All he has to do is let go, let himself sink, and it will be over. So easy, once you make your mind up to it.

Some time later, he's showered and dressed in fresh clothes and looking through his office desk. He can see them all in the living room still, watching him covertly through the gaps in the bookshelf walls. He focuses on finding what he's looking for: a business card. When he finds it, he makes a call. He's in luck; Dr. Burke is in, and is eager to help him. Arrangements are made. Private hospital. They'll be expecting him today.

He steps out into the living room, tells everyone his decision. He doesn't thank them, but his decision seems to be enough for them, for now.

His mother and daughter call a cab and ride with him to the hospital. He stays there for six weeks.

 _ **To be continued…**_


	3. Interlude

_**My thanks to all the readers for your kind words and follows. You are much appreciated!**_

" _Heaven or hell or somewhere in between."_ —The Civil Wars, "C'est La Mort"

X

Spring has come early to New York City. Hank, the cemetery groundskeeper, has had to hire on more staff to help with keeping the grass in check and rooting out the weeds that are springing up from every corner. He pauses in his weed-killing to see a tall man with graying hair who's standing by one of the more recent graves. What catches Hank's attention is that the man is holding not just flowers—gladiolus, for remembrance—but also a roll of what appears to be paper, tied with a purple ribbon. A little unusual, that, but far from the oddest thing Hank has seen left at graves. The man sets down the flowers and the roll of paper, and then he stands there for quite some time, not speaking.

If Hank were to untie the ribbon, unroll the paper, and read what was written there, he would see this:

 _Kate:_

 _Learning to live without you feels like learning to live without some part of myself._

 _I miss you so much. Every day. I wake up in the morning and you're not there. At first I told myself that you'd gotten up early; I'd wander through the loft, knowing you weren't there but looking for you anyway. I can't do that any more, because your scent has finally faded from your side of the bed, and I know at once that you're gone. At night I lie in bed and look up at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come and wondering how I ever managed to sleep without you next to me. I miss your body and the sound of your voice and the feel of your hands on me. I miss making you breakfast. I miss massaging your calves after a long day on your feet in those ridiculous heels of yours. I miss your smile. I miss your laugh. I miss the way you roll your eyes and I miss those little lines that appear between your brows when you're frustrated._

 _Just when I think that a day will come when I don't miss you, something will happen from out of the blue. Yesterday I saw a dandelion growing out of a crack in the sidewalk, and I remembered one of our trips to the Hamptons, when you saw a dandelion and picked it and rubbed it under my chin to see if I liked butter, and then you tucked the flower over one of your ears. And when we got home you took the dandelion out of your hair and forgot about it, but I pressed it in a book so I wouldn't lose it._

 _This loss, this yearning for you—let me be blunt, this pain—it never goes away. Sometimes it's a whisper and sometimes it's a scream, but it's always there, and I suspect it always will be. It's part of me now._

 _This pain feels natural. It's what I should feel in the wake of this loss. I can accept that._

 _There are other things that are much harder to accept. These things are the reason why I've kept away for so long, and why I won't be back—not any time soon._

 _There's the doubt. Ever since the day I got the call from Esposito, telling me they found you in that vacant lot, I've had doubt as a constant companion. I wonder why you shut me out of whatever it was you were involved in. Were you trying to protect me? If so, why did you feel you had to shelter me? Was there something that made me unfit to be your partner in this? Was there something you learned about me, maybe from when I was missing, that made you shut me out? Or was what you were after something you wanted more than you wanted our life together? Did you weigh it against years of love and togetherness and children and growing old together, and decide that it was worth the cost? If this had happened after we'd had children, would they have kept you from it? Or would you have shut them out as well?_

 _I sound angry. No, I_ am _angry. That's been the hardest thing to face, the thing I was most reluctant to talk about when I was in the hospital and even now with my therapist. I'm angry. With whoever it was who took you from the world and from me. With our family and friends, for telling me to let you be and give you your space. With myself, for going against all my instincts and letting you go. With us, for being victims of our own success; maybe if we'd had a few failures, you'd have been more cautious. And I'm angry with you, for thinking you could take on something this big and bad all by yourself, without me or the boys, and leaving us with no way to find out the truth._

 _There are no answers. It's been over six months now, and we know almost exactly as much as we did in the first days after your death. It's not for lack of trying. The boys have been digging, chasing down anything that might be a lead, going through your old case files, ignoring their current cases. Espo's already been put on suspension once for short-shrifting his cases. There's a split growing between the boys. Ryan wants to let it go; I think he's scared of whatever could be behind all this—whatever wiped away all leads so efficiently is nothing to be trifled with, and he has a family to think of. Espo sees that as a betrayal of you; sometimes I think he sees me as a betrayer, too. Because I can't join him in this quest. For once, I don't want to solve the mystery. I'm so afraid that whatever I might learn will send me back into that time when the loss of you almost drowned me. If I had been alongside you and died with you, that would have been one thing. We'd faced that risk so many times over the years, and I'd long since made my peace that it might end that way. But I can't follow you into the grave. Not after our family and friends begged me not to. Not after I saw how frightened Alexis was that she might have to bury me, too._

 _All of this is why I won't be back here soon. I'm leaving New York. There are too many memories and ghosts here now. Every place I go has something that reminds me of you. Even places we never went: I'll see a little used book store and remember that I'd always planned to take you there one day. I'll be in the park and look up at the stars and realize that I never did that with you. If it was loss alone that I had to bear, I could stay here. But the loss and the anger and the doubt…it's too much. You could call it running away, but I've thought it over, and getting some distance (geographical and otherwise) is the only way I'll be able to go on with life._

 _In a few weeks, Alexis and I will drive across the country to L.A. She's long overdue for some time with her mother, and though she'd never admit it, she needs some time where she's not worrying about me. A week with Meredith where the most serious thing she needs to ponder is which credit card to use will be good for her. I think the long drive will be good for us. We're far too uneasy with each other these days, both of us afraid of saying the wrong thing or accidentally rubbing salt in each others' wounds. I need to do what I can to make things better, and I hope that somewhere in three thousand miles of country between here and California, I'll find a place I can call home. Somewhere I can live as best I can without you._

 _I hope that wherever you are, you somehow see these words and understand. It feels wrong to leave this letter here. There are so many places in the city where I feel your presence. I've lost track of how many times I've sensed you nearby and turned to look for you and never found you. Not here at your grave, never here, but it's the only place where it's safe to leave this letter._

 _There's nothing else to say except goodbye, and that I love you. And always will._

 _Rick_

 _ **To be continued…**_


	4. Orpheus

_**I'm sorry this took a while. Long chapter, plus real life got in the way as it so often does.**_

 _Well I'm as puzzled as a newborn child_

 _I'm as riddled as the tide_

 _Should I stand at the breakers_

 _Or should I lie with death my bride_

—Tim Buckley, "Song to the Siren"

X

The drive to California is a meandering thing with no timetable beyond a few hotels they've booked beforehand in cities they know they want to visit. There's a great deal of impulsiveness. They spend two days in Chicago, primarily at the Art Institute, and on the spur of the moment they drive up to Wisconsin to see The House On The Rock ("I thought Neil Gaiman just made this place up!" says a fascinated and appalled Alexis). They keep running tallies of the ugliest cars and scariest-looking motels they see, and hold a contest as to which of them can come up with the best epithet for drivers who behave badly in traffic (for some time Alexis is the champion with "chupacabra," but concedes defeat in Colorado when Castle lets loose with "Nazi drunkard").

They don't talk about Kate at first. He wants to. Time and again something will remind him of her, or he'll catch himself starting to say _Kate would have loved this_. It seems that talking about her is a necessary thing, a good thing, to make his memories of her ones of light rather than of darkness. At the same time, he is afraid to speak of her, afraid that to do so will bring back the black grief that nearly undid him, even more afraid that Alexis doesn't want to hear about her.

But it's his daughter who breaks the silence about Kate. In Missouri they go to a street fair, and a booth selling deep-fried everything is their downfall. The fabled deep-fried Snickers bar is too tempting for Castle; he talks Alexis into it, and some hours later they both pay the price. Since it had been his idea, he's the one who goes down to their hotel lobby's sundries shop for Pepto-Bismol. He knocks on the door to her adjoining room; when she opens it and he hands over her bottle, she says, "Tell me I'm not the only one who can hear Kate saying, 'I told you so.'"

He comes in and sits down, opening his own bottle of chalky-tasting medicine. He hesitates a moment before saying, "She'd been there, done that. She told me once that she and her girl friend Maddie went to Coney Island after Maddie had a bad breakup. They didn't eat anything that day that wasn't pink."

"Did they get sick?"

He nods. "On the subway home, no less."

After that, it's easier. They don't talk about her a lot, but the memories they share are all the more meaningful and treasured. Their chatter about the drive and the things they see feels more natural, and their silences are less heavy. It feels good for him to think about Kate and to have those thoughts be pleasant rather than the caustic cycle of doubt and regret and anger.

There's a meteor shower right after they cross the border into California, so instead of finding a hotel, they pull off to the side of the road, sit on the hood of the car, and watch the lights streak across the starry night. Too many of them to wish on, and the wish that comes most readily to his mind— _to see her one last time, to tell her I love her_ —is one he knows can never be granted. He wishes anyway, wanting to add something more: to ask her for…he's not sure. Answers? Forgiveness?

"I can't put it off any more," says Alexis, her voice a little higher than usual, a pitch he associates with nervousness.

"Put what off?"

"I'm taking the plunge for what I want to do when I go back to school in the fall." His daughter takes a deep breath and says, "I'm going to be an environmental investigator. Do something good for the world, and I figure the PI skills and legal classes will help a lot. What do you think?"

His heart swells with pride and with pleasure that she's found not just her path but one he knows she will be good at; it breaks a little at seeing how nervously she's looking at him. "I think it's wonderful. And perfect for you. How'd you decide on that?"

She looks more nervous, not less. "Well…it was something Kate said. The last…the last time we really talked together."

Castle wonders when that was. Before Kate started her captaincy, most likely. He wasn't the only one she'd shut out.

Alexis keeps her gaze fixed on the sky. "I told her that I'd been thinking about going into law, but in the end it just wasn't exciting me. I thought she might see it as me letting her down, after all her help with the classes and because I knew that was what she originally wanted to do. But she told me that as long as I did something I was passionate about, I'd be helping people and making a difference." She turns and looks at him. "She said I should follow in your footsteps."

He honestly wonders that that means. After all, he hadn't helped anyone or made a difference until he started shadowing Kate. Before that he was just a writer. He remembers when they first got the 3XK case; Montgomery said the suspect had "a menial and unimportant job" and Kate had said, "Definitely you." It had been pushed to the back of his mind by the case and Tyson's escape, but his feelings had been hurt by that little barb; he's always wondered if it was just teasing or if she'd really thought that.

His thoughts must be showing. "What's wrong?" Alexis asks.

He shakes his head. "Nothing."

"She loved your books, Dad. Years before you ever met. She told me that they helped her out after her mom died. She said it was how passionate you were about the characters, and how you always made sure justice got served." His daughter reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder. "She said she even stood in line for hours so you could sign one of your books."

Now it's his turn to look determinedly at the stars. His throat aches fiercely with unshed tears. "Why didn't she tell me?" he manages.

"I asked the same thing. She said she didn't tell you at first because she thought you'd tease her about it. And after…she was waiting for the right time. She was…" Alexis breaks off.

When he looks at her, he sees the hesitation in her face. "Go on," he says.

"She wanted to tell you in a really special way. She said she was going to give the book you signed to you for your anniversary. You know, first anniversary, paper. She…she couldn't wait to see the look on your face when you unwrapped one of your own books."

His daughter says more after that but Castle doesn't hear it. His head's full of an empty sort of roar, the pain in his throat makes it impossible to speak, and he can't look at the stars any more. He's not aware of hugging Alexis, only knows that she's got her arms around him and is crying, whispering, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have told you that."

"It's all right. I'm glad you told me." Because he is, in a strange way.

"I was scared to tell you. I don't want you go away again."

"I won't." He's certain of that. Mostly certain.

X

Three days later, he sits in the airport bar, nursing a club soda. He would much prefer something stronger, but the medication he's on means he has to be careful about drinking these days, and airport booze is always weak and overpriced anyway. Castle takes a moment to calculate the time in New York and to gauge how long he has before his flight; he has enough time to call his mother.

"I just got your latest postcard," she says. Every stop he and Alexis have made, he's gotten two postcards, and written messages. One card goes to his mother. The others, written to Kate, are in his suitcase. "I take it I can expect more from California?"

That had been the original plan. There was plenty to see and do while Alexis spent time with her mother; he'd thought of going to the Getty museum, or maybe driving up to San Francisco. But he'd made the mistake of going to dinner with Meredith and Alexis; his ex-wife had, after a glass of wine too many, reached out and stroked his hair, twirling a lock of it around one finger. "I see you've gone for the silver fox look," she'd purred. "It suits you, kitten."

"My God, Richard," his mother says when he relates this to her, "that woman is a walking _faux pas_."

"Alexis was mortified. I've never seen her so embarrassed. Offered to cut the visit short, but I convinced her to stay. I won't be here, though."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm not sure. I asked Alexis to find me the next flight out to somewhere she'd thought I'd like, and that's what she did. It boards pretty soon and I'm going to do my best not to know where I'm going until I land."

There's a protracted silence from his mother.

"I'll be back in a week. I just…I need to be elsewhere. Alexis says she's sure I'll like where I'm going."

She finally says, "Let me understand this. You are getting on a flight in twenty minutes and you have no idea where you're going."

"Yes. Isn't it great?"

The sound he hears from his mother seems to start out as laughter, but after a moment he realizes she's crying. "No, no, don't cry. What's wrong?" he asks, his heart racing.

"Nothing's wrong, darling. It's just…you sound like you again. It's been a long time."

He thinks about that when he's sitting on the flight, having done his best to pretend any mention of the destination is in the garbled voice of Charlie Brown's teacher. _You sound like you_ , his mother said. But who is he anymore? He's no longer a writer. His well of words has run dry. He has no urge to put pen to paper ever again, and _Blazing Heat_ will be finished to fulfill his contract, but not by him; he's handed his outline, notes, and rough draft to a couple of ghostwriters that Black Pawn has hired. He's no longer Kate Beckett's husband; it's anyone's guess how many of his friendships from the Twelfth or the rest of the city will survive. He's no longer a cop helper or even a PI.

What he is: Alexis's father, Martha's son. That's enough. It will have to be. Wherever he ends up. Which is the other thing that troubles him. All during these thousands of miles, he'd hoped that some place would call to him, would say _Here is where your new life is_. But he felt nothing of the kind. Some places were interesting and some were dull, but nothing spoke to him.

Maybe wherever he is headed will be different. It's a faint hope, fragile as dandelion fluff, but he'll hold on to it. He has to.

X

Where the plane takes him is Vancouver, British Columbia.

It's a place he's never been, though he'd always intended to visit some day. It's so green and, even in the heart of summer, so cool. The air is clean in a way it never is in New York, not even at the Hamptons. The people are kind and polite; he hears more _please_ and _thank you_ in a week than he does all year in New York.

He wanders through Stanley Park and spends two days at the markets on Granville Island. He takes a tour up to Grouse Mountain's wildlife refuge and sees grizzly bears— _real grizzly bears_! His sleep is the best it's been in months; so very strange to wake feeling rested and unable to remember if he'd had nightmares.

Castle wonders if this might be the place.

On his last day he heads north, a short way up the coast. There's a small town there, Haven Cove, and he parks and wanders the streets for a while, peering in shop windows but not going inside, though he's tempted by a coffeehouse called Impressions that has its sign painted in blue-and-gold Van Gogh swirls. After a time he makes his way down to the beach, and sits there, facing the sea.

He likes it here. Though he's not happy. He's not sure he has the capacity to be happy any more. Content, maybe. Yes. He could be content here.

But it feels disloyal, to be content. Maybe he's abandoning Kate by leaving New York, not trying to solve the mystery of her death. If he stays in New York, it will be the ruin of him; he can't do that to Alexis and his mother. Only by leaving can he get the distance he needs to be able to survive this. _That's what it's about, Kate. Survival._

It would help if he knew she somehow understood. That she wasn't angry at him for failing to save her or unable to be at peace because he hadn't brought her killer to justice.

Castle shivers, sitting here on the beach. The sky is heavy with gray clouds that threaten rain, though none's fallen yet, and the temperature is dropping.

A cold tingle that has nothing to do with the temperature runs down his spine. He's had this feeling before—with the sensation comes the conviction that Kate is here, standing just behind him somewhere. It hasn't happened since he left New York, not with this strength, at least. He starts to turn around, even though he knows what he'll see. Nothing. She won't be there. She's never there. Never. It's all just…

Wait.

He doesn't turn. Because he remembers his Greek mythology now. Orpheus was given the chance to bring his love Euridice back from the realm of Hades, on one condition. She was to walk behind him, and he was not to look back until they reached the realm of living. But doubt won out, and Orpheus looked back, only to see Euridice being taken back to the land of the dead, lost to him until his own death.

He doesn't turn. He stares resolutely out at the sea, his nerves running wild up and down his back as if he's expecting a blow. He doesn't turn.

It's colder now, colder than it has any right to be in summertime Vancouver, but he's warm despite it, because there's a familiar touch on the back of his head. She always liked to touch him there. So many times and circumstances: pulling his head to her for a kiss, greeting him at the breakfast table, twining her fingers in his hair after they made love. Something in him breaks, because he doesn't care if it's his imagination or a delusion or a ghost, she's here. _She's here._

He somehow knows she won't be here for long. Castle wastes no time with doubts or questions. "I miss you," he whispers, feeling her touch grow a little stronger, as if in reply. "I love you. Always."

That should be enough. If circumstances had been different, if he had lost her in an ordinary way—a car accident, disease, even a random suspect shooting up the precinct—it would be enough. But there's one more thing to say.

"I forgive you." As the words are said, he feels the very air around him ripple, as if with a deep sigh of profoundest relief. "I forgive you," he whispers a second time, because he's not just saying it to Kate. He's saying it to the friends and family who said he had to respect her wishes and leave her alone.

He's saying it to himself.

After what might be seconds or hours, her touch fades and is gone. Now he lets himself look behind him, and of course sees nothing there but the Canadian beach.

Castle stands, a trifle unsteadily for his legs are stiff from his long vigil on the beach and the otherworldly cold that has seeped into his bones. Above him and behind him, the sky is dark with rain clouds, though to the west, out over the sea, the sky is clear, casting an eerie light over the beach where he stands. It's an appropriate sky. _A rather heavy-handed bit of imagery there_ , he chides himself. But no matter. He begins the long walk back to his car.

The rain starts coming down almost as soon as he starts walking, and by the time he gets back to town he's soaked through and shivering; his hands and feet feel like chunks of ice. He desperately needs something to warm him up, so he ducks into the coffeehouse he saw earlier.

He barely registers anything about it beyond the fact that it's warm. He orders the fastest thing he can get, a cup of the house blend, and his hands are so cold they feel burned by the heat of the cup in his hands. Castle sits in a corner chair, feeling only the warmth of the cup and the rainwater trickling down his face (warm rain that tastes of salt), thinking only of the visitation he's experienced, this gift from the universe.

"Sir?" says a voice from close beside him. He glances up to see a woman a few years his junior, clad in an apron that has _Laura, Assistant Manager_ embroidered on it. He takes in little of her appearance save for her eyes, which are grayish-blue and worried, and her hair, a medium blond with a magenta braid on each side. "Sir? Are you OK?"

"I'm all right," he says, meaning it for the first time since Kate died. "I think I'm going to be all right."

 _ **I estimate one last chapter to come. Thanks for coming along on this admittedly tough journey with me.**_

 _ **A few notes and credit-where-credit-is-dues. The term "walking faux pas" comes from an MST3K episode. The House On The Rock is a real Wisconsin landmark that appears in Neil Gaiman's**_ **American Gods** _ **. The town of Haven Cove is found in some of my original fiction (PM me if you'd like to know more).**_


	5. La Vie

_**Bit of a time jump in this chapter. Rick's been in Vancouver for about a year and a half.**_

 _Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something_

 _Upon which to rejoice_

—T. S. Eliot, "Ash Wednesday"

X

Castle gazes at the monitor of his laptop; his fingertips hover over the keys. The writing's been slow this morning. Well, it's always slow now. It's hard to believe he ever was able to bang out a book in just a few months. Those days are probably long gone now.

He doesn't mind. He's happy to be writing at all.

He saves the document and shuts down the laptop. Leaning back on the sofa, he cracks his back and his neck. He really should get a desk and an ergonomic chair for his writing, but he's afraid he'll jinx things. He knows what works for now, and he's loath to do anything else.

Take right now, for instance. He knows that when he's hit a roadblock, a change of scene will usually help him get past it. He sets the laptop, his notes, and his phone in a pile, and sets about getting to his feet. This would be an easy task were it not for Macavity, the big Maine coon he adopted from a shelter a few months after he moved to Haven Cove; Macavity likes to stretch out and nap on Castle's feet when he's writing, and doesn't like being rousted when his master needs food or a bathroom break or a change of scene.

"Time to relocate," Castle says, and Macavity grudgingly moves to the ottoman over by the fireplace. The cat is familiar enough with his master's habits to know that later tonight there'll be a fire, and he can nap on Castle's lap for hours while Castle reads or watches a movie or just gazes out at the Pacific Ocean.

His house, perched right on the coast with the sea on one side and the woods on the other, is far smaller than the one in the Hamptons (which he sold when he moved from New York). Two bedrooms: one for him and one for a guest. Said guest is most frequently Alexis, who visits every couple months, on occasion his mother, and last autumn Jim stayed for a week. His bedroom is at the rear of the house, with tall pines visible out every window; at night he can hear the wind sighing in the trees and the waves' endless breaking and receding.

The house has a fair number of mementoes from the loft; just enough to be familiar and comforting, not so many that this new home is a reproduction of the past. At one end of the living room, just by the entrance to his bedroom, is Kate's painting, the one that hung by the stairs back in the loft; beside the painting is a framed photo of them on their wedding day.

But it's the other end of the living room, with the front door, that he passes now. On the wall at this end is another painting, one he bought not long after he moved here. It's in a style that reminds him of Monet, showing a seashore with a half-stormy, half-sunny sky above—so much like that day on the beach when he felt Kate's presence that it gives him pause sometimes. Whenever there are bad times (fewer of them now, but they still happen), he thinks of that day, of Kate's hand on the back of his head, of the way the very air seemed to sigh when he said he forgave her—and he has the strength to go on. Looking at this painting gives him much the same feeling. That's why he writes in this room despite the lack of a desk and the attendant backaches: with Kate's painting at one end of the room and the seascape on the other, with the rustle of trees behind him and the windows looking out on the ocean before him, and a cat purring on top of his feet, it's a place of comfort to him.

It's not his only place of comfort here in Haven Cove, and he heads to one of the others now. The bells on the door of Impressions jingle as he walks in with his laptop and notebook tucked under one arm, breathing deep the scent of mingled coffee, tea, chocolate, and spices. "Hey, Laura," he calls out to the assistant manager.

She smiles and waves at him. "Hi, Rick." The colorful streak through her hair is peacock blue this week. He always likes seeing what new spin she's put on her hair; he jots it down and lets Alexis know—his daughter likes Haven Cove and on her visits they've spent time here at Impressions. When he gets settled in his favorite chair, Laura leaves the coffee bar in the hands of the barista and walks over to him. "Your usual? Or we've got a new drink with Mexican chocolate."

"Twist my arm," he says. Castle starts opening his laptop, getting his notes situated, putting his phone on vibrate.

"How's Macavity?" she asks after she relays his order to the barista.

"I'm thinking of renaming him Lunchbox. Either they weren't feeding him enough at the shelter or I'm feeding him too much."

Laura laughs and goes to get his beverage.

Ever since he moved to Haven Cove, this has been one of his favorite places. It's homey, with shelves full of books that the patrons can borrow from or donate to, a chessboard set up in one corner, open mike night on Tuesdays, book club on Thursdays, a music selection that ranges from beatnik jazz to The Cure, and paintings by local artists hanging on the walls. In fact, he bought the seascape he finds so comforting here. Best money he's spent so far, other than the cost of adopting Macavity.

He's soon settled into one of his favorite chairs. By the time Laura brings his beverage he's already immersed back in the story, his fingers tapping out the words.

They come slowly, more slowly than they've ever come since he first started writing, back when he was a kid and had no idea what he was doing. In a way, it feels like learning to write all over again. It's the first thing he's ever written that wasn't some kind of mystery, but he's lost his taste for mystery. He supposes it's literary fiction, though he doesn't care about genre, doesn't even really care about publication; he hasn't told anyone but Alexis and his mother that he's writing. He's not sure what the final title will be. For now he calls it _The Silences Unbroken_ , from Ovid's telling of the myth of Orpheus and Euridice. He's pouring everything into the story: his love, his grief, his sorrow and anger. All of it.

He spends several hours at Impressions, writing, pausing only for sips of coffee that the baristas keep topped up for him. Before he leaves, he stops by the bar to settle the bill; this system was Laura's idea, and it works well for him—it keeps him caffeinated without breaking his creative spell. As he's putting his change in the tip jar, she asks, "How's the book coming?"

His heart gives an unpleasant thud. As far as he knows, here he's just a guy named Rick. Being Richard Castle, famous author and crime-solver, is another thing that's lost its appeal. "How do you know it's a book? It could be spreadsheets or an annual report," he says as lightheartedly as he knows how.

Laura chuckles, puffs a strand of blue-streaked hair out of her face. "Please. No one looks that intense about an annual report. Or if they do, I don't want to know about it."

"It's going well," he tells her. "Thanks, as always. And thanks for the Mexican chocolate."

When he gets home, the mail has come. There's a letter from his mother; she writes him once every couple weeks. E-mail would be cheaper, given postage to Canada, but she says it's too impersonal. He saves the evenings for correspondence from friends and family, reading letters and e-mails and making phone or Skype calls by the fireside, with Macavity in his lap. It's a little surprising, the people from New York who stay in touch. LT makes sure to send him the Twelfth Precinct's newsletter. Ryan e-mails regularly with news of Jenny and the kids and the desk job he took not long after Castle moved away. Lanie said she would stay in touch but never does. And oddly enough, he gets Christmas cards from Gates; maybe she didn't hate him after all.

Tonight he's expecting Alexis to Skype him, but the phone rings and it's Espo on the line. That's unusual. Usually he hears from Espo in texts or while playing Destiny or Halo. "Javi. How are you?"

"Okay. I mean, mostly." Espo's words are a bit slurred, and in the background Castle can hear the sounds of a bar. He wonders if it's the Old Haunt, which he still owns. "Not so good, actually."

"What is it?"

"No, never mind. I shouldn't…"

Only one subject could make Esposito so reticent. Castle steels himself and says, "It's all right. Tell me."

"I don't know what to do," Esposito says. "I've been through every case file, chased down anything that even looked like a lead. There's nothing. Nothing."

Castle's heart sinks, though this is hardly unexpected. It's been nearly two years now, and there are no answers. He's known in his heart for some time that there never will be, and he's made a sort of peace with that. But he's not certain that Espo can ever do the same.

"I don't know if I can keep doing this, Castle. I want to find out what happened, but I'm one disciplinary action away from losing my badge forever."

"Kate wouldn't want—"

Espo doesn't seem to hear. "I'd be happy to be a rent-a-cop if it meant finding out what happened. But I just can't keep beating my head against this wall. It's too…it's…"

"I know what it's like," he says as gently as he can.

"I know you do." Espo takes a deep breath. "I'm going to let it go. Maybe one day I can go back to it, but not now. Not for a while. I understand if you don't want…It's been good to have you as a friend—"

"Javi, please. I'd never hold that against you." He'd always thought that Javi had held it against him that he'd fled New York. He'd never imagined it the other way around. "It's okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." After a moment, he asks, "Did you tell Ryan?"

"I was going to call him next. I haven't seen him or talked to him since he transferred."

Silence falls. Castle thinks about the fractures that Kate's death has caused, not just in his life but in Ryan's, Espo's, Jim's, Lanie's…who knows how many others. "I've thought about it so much, Javi, what happened to Kate and…I think that if we never know the answers, it's because she wanted it that way. I think it was protection of some kind. Her life for ours. We wouldn't have any answers, but we'd be safe. That's what I tell myself, anyway."

"You believe it?"

"Most of the time."

"I guess I can believe it too."

X

Alexis Skypes him not long after he gets off the phone with Espo. He does his best to put the call to the back of his mind and focus only on his daughter. She's working for the Environmental Protection Agency now, investigating reports of possible contamination in local parks and waterways. In recent calls she's talked a lot about one of the lab fellows she works with, and so he says, "How's Nicholas? Are you two bonding over…I don't know, Geiger counter readouts?"

"Soil samples, Dad. Nothing like little jars of dirt to inspire romantic feelings. We're going to the movies tomorrow night. How's the writing?"

"Good. May do a bit more tonight."

She looks a bit worried though she says nothing. She knows that at times he gets so caught up in the writing that he forgets to eat and goes without sleep. But she also knows what a comfort the writing is to him, and if it's a kind of drug, it's a better one than pills or booze.

Up until early this year, he honestly thought he would never write again. Castle still isn't sure how the spark came back. There was no catalyst as far as he can recall. He just woke one morning, feeling restless in a way that was very familiar and half-forgotten; it had taken him a little while to realize it was the desire—no, the _need_ —to write. He'd sat down before his laptop with no story in mind, no outline or plan, just a blank page before him. Hours later he'd looked in mild disbelief at the words. Since then he's written every day. The words don't come as easily as they used to, but they're there, and he's grateful for them. They give him yet another reason to go on.

X

From _The New York Times_ book review section, one year later:

 _It is all too tempting to see Mr. Castle's literary fiction debut as an attempt to reinvent his career after the mixed reception and poor sales of the final book of his Nikki Heat series, but_ The Silences Unbroken _is powerful enough to dismiss all but the most cynical reader's qualms after the first few pages. A tale of the aftermath of grief and the search for answers in the wake of loss, the novel has remarkable emotional power—so much so that at times it comes close to being overwhelming. However, it is always rescued from melodrama by Mr. Castle's command of character and narrative. Though the novel's journey is, at times, a difficult one, it is also emotionally rewarding, and easily one of the more memorable novels published so far this year._

The day the review appears in the paper, just about everyone he knows calls to tell him about it and congratulate him. But it's a package that arrives two days later that touches him the most: a framed copy of the review, with an accompanying note signed by Alexis, his mother, Jim, Paula, Gina, and most everyone he knows from the Twelfth. He's happy to see all their names and congratulatory wishes, but it's Jim's that brings tears to his eyes: _Wherever she is, Katie's proud of you, Rick_. He thinks of that day on the beach, of Kate's comforting touch, and is certain his father-in-law is right.

He does no book signings or interviews; the book's too personal for interviews, and he wouldn't be able to go to a signing without thinking (hoping? fearing?) that he might hear a much-loved voice say: _Kate. You can make it out to Kate_. Paula and his mother send him the good reviews (there are a few bad ones, he finds out later, mostly ones chiding him for daring to step outside the crime novel genre), but for the most part his life goes back to what it was before he started writing again. He reads a great deal, makes friends at a local writer's group, takes some cooking classes. He's thinking of getting some sort of teaching position at UBC or maybe Vancouver Community College.

One day, he walks into Impressions and starts to call out a hello to Laura, only to be taken somewhat aback by her hair, which has wide black streaks in the blond. "I know, I know," she says with a rueful smile. "I was going for 'tiger' and ended up with 'bumblebee.'"

"I like bumblebees," he says, knowing instantly how inane it is. It hangs in the air for a moment, and Laura looks at him in a peculiar way, as if they aren't actually talking about bumblebees. "Tigers are overrated. Anyway," he says, "I have a question. Do you have a second?"

"Sure." She steps over by the pastry display, which is mostly depleted now that the morning rush is over. "What's up?"

"A long while back, I bought a painting from here. It really…spoke to me. Got me through a…well, it's called _After the Storm_. Artist is L. R. Miller. It was inspirational to me, when I was working on my book, and I wanted…"

He stops, taken aback by the look on Laura's face. It's a look not unlike the one he probably wore when he got the reviews for his book. "Oh," she says, blue-gray eyes wide. "Jimmy told me someone bought it, but he never told me it was you."

"You painted it." Of course. He'd have put it together sooner but she's always just been _Laura_ , or _Laura of the Colorful Hair_ as he refers to her when he talks to Alexis. "It's lovely, it really is. I don't know how many times I looked at it when I was writing the book."

"I'm so glad," she says. "And your book…is it published? You probably think I'm a jerk for not knowing, but I don't read much fiction. Just art histories and biographies. I can tell you what a bastard Degas was but nothing about what's on the bestseller list, and I'm sorry. I'm babbling."

"That's OK," he says with a smile. "I babble all the time myself."

"It's just that I mostly do the paintings just for me, so when someone buys one or says they liked it, I get flustered." She runs her hands through her bumblebee hair, glances toward the bar, where the queue is getting long.

"I didn't mean to fluster you. I just wanted to say thanks."

She smiles, radiantly. "You're welcome. And thank you." Laura starts toward the bar, and then turns back to him. "Rick, are you free this weekend? There's an exhibit at the Vancouver Art Gallery I've been wanting to see. Would you be interested? Maybe get a drink afterward?"

X

"And?" Alexis asks.

"Don't leave us hanging, Richard. What did you say?" his mother says.

Oh, how he rues the day Alexis taught Martha to Skype. Alexis is in New York, having brought Nicholas to meet her grandmother, and now they're both staring at him out of his iPad screen, waiting for his answer.

"I didn't say much of…to be honest, I just kind of stumbled all over my words, and she said, 'It's okay then, never mind it.'" He leaves out how she'd turned red with embarrassment and how she'd seemed inordinately focused on her inventory sheet when he left the coffeehouse.

His mother rolls her eyes. Alexis says, "Dad, I thought you liked her."

"I did. I do." He does. He likes talking with her and sharing a joke; she's one of the first friends he made here, and—she makes him content. "I just didn't expect…I thought I was just a customer. It took me by surprise."

That was putting it mildly. It's not that he thinks interest in another woman is showing disloyalty to Kate. It's that he honestly hasn't considered the idea of romantic involvement. He fears that there isn't anything left in him to give; he buried it when he buried Kate. He says, "Well, it wouldn't be much of a bargain for her. I'm kind of damaged goods. And anyway, I'm not sure I want anything like this right now."

They look at each other and then at him; he realizes that they've talked about this topic among themselves. "Richard, you are a big-hearted, generous, loving man who deserves to have someone to care for in your life," his mother says.

Then his daughter chimes in: "Maybe the thing to ask yourself isn't if this is what you want, but if it's what you need."

X

He sits out on the beach, in his favorite spot. His thinking place. How many times has he come here in the last few years? He's long ago lost count.

Castle ponders his mother's and daughter's words. Does he deserve to have someone in his life? He honestly can't say. Two failed marriages, one wife lost to death. Not exactly a stellar track record. As for what he wants, there's no question. If he could have anything, it would be to have his life with Kate back, and to take what he knows now and change things so that they end up with the life he'd always wanted for them, a long, happy marriage and a child or two. He'd sell his soul for that, change his name to Faust in a heartbeat, but no Mephistophelian figure has shown up with a contract in hand.

But if the past cannot be changed and there are no second chances, where does that leave him now?

He's been resigned to spending the rest of his life alone. It's something he's thought about during those long nights when sleep eludes him. It's not that he enjoys being alone. He rather hates it, especially in the months since he finished the book. He hates waking up by himself, having no one at home to talk to except Macavity. He hasn't had any physical contact with another person that wasn't his family in who knows how long. He's lonely. But maybe he doesn't have to be. He'll never love anyone the way he loved Kate, but that doesn't mean he never has to love again.

What does he need? Someone he can talk to, laugh with, care for. Someone who likes him for who he is, for just being Rick. And who knows, there's always the chance that he could have what he's always needed: someone who's happy with being Mrs. Richard Castle.

He blinks, looks around. He's been so lost in thought that he hasn't noticed his feet have carried him to the sidewalk outside Impressions. He smiles. Even if Laura of the Many-Colored Hair isn't the one, he knows what he needs: to step inside and give her a real answer to her question.

A sudden breeze blows up, seeming to nudge him toward the door. Castle takes a deep breath, opens the door, and walks in.

 _ **One of my many complaints about the current season is that Beckett seems to have given no consideration to what would happen to the people in her life, and especially Castle, if she's unsuccessful in her quest against LockSat. Considering what she's up against, this seems a serious thing to overlook and I'm not sure if this comes from hubris or denial on her part. Of course, because the show is what it is, she'll be successful one way or another. But I thought of how devastated Castle would be if Beckett was killed pursuing LockSat and he was out of the loop. This had the potential to be life-ruining. At the same time, I felt that Castle, with his good heart and his capacity to love, deserved a hopeful ending, if not a happily-ever-after one. I've tried to give him that.**_

 _ **I want to thank everyone who left such wonderful reviews for this story. I didn't intend for it to be quite this long (I think it was originally supposed to be a one-shot), but I'm happy that people seem to have enjoyed it.**_


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